


Confessional

by HARP0



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HARP0/pseuds/HARP0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murata is injured and many things come to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aella_Antiope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aella_Antiope/gifts).



Confessional

 

 

 **Author’s note:**   This is just for fun and no profit.  I do not own the characters connected to Kyou Kara Maou.  The story is, however, my own.  Thanks for reading!

 

Note:  This is a “get well soon” present for Aella Antiope . 

 

 

“Put him down over here,” Gwendal ordered gruffly and Wolfram’s second in command, Giles, did so with a hard expression on his face.

Yuuri followed behind, stumbling on some uneven ground as he went.  Clearly, he was worried, as was Wolfram.

A groan. 

Murata was still in pain, struggling to keep from crying out as he was stretched flat on a patch of soft, green grass. He fisted his hands and arched his body when he couldn’t stand it any longer.  Breathing.  He had to breathe. But it was so hard.

Yuuri knelt beside Murata, still holding his friend’s broken glasses which had fallen off when he tumbled from the rocks where he was taking samples.

A snake.  A Snub-nosed one at that.  The migration had started early this year, apparently.

Murata had dodged when his eyes caught the sudden, striking movement in his direction.  But, dodging was one thing and having his right foot slip off a rock was another thing entirely. And he could feel himself falling without his mind having the slightest clue what to do next. Everything moved in slow motion. That’s what it was and, now, all Murata could hear were voices crowded around him and his body was in searing pain.  Instinct told him to curl into a fetal position, but his right leg wouldn’t obey. 

Cold skin, ripped clothing…maybe.  His trouser leg? 

“He’s bleeding pretty badly,” Gwendal observed, seemingly stoic as usual but the concern was there, too.  “Someone, get out the medical kit.” 

Murata could hear the man give more orders, but none of the words stayed in his mind. 

Boots were thudding away on the ground.

Murata gritted his teeth. His leg.  It hurt so badly now.  Yuuri was saying something, but, again, he couldn’t think of what to say.  Nothing.  The sage just wanted the pain to stop and to sleep off everything else.  The rest could wait. He’d learned that long ago. What was vital now would, in all likelihood, mean nothing one hundred years later.

A new voice.  It was Wolfram’s.  “Try giving him some water, Yuuri.  Maybe, that will clear his head.  I saw him take the fall, but I was too far away to do anything about it. His leg got the worst of it, I think.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Wolf, for giving me your canteen.”

There was the sound of the cloth bag being opened and the top unscrewed.  A liquid was being poured into a tin cup.  “Not too much, though,” Wolfram advised. “Too much and he might choke on it.”

“Right.”

A pleasant, light sent of sunflowers as Murata found his head being lifted up slightly.  Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to a world that was much too bright.  Slightly blurry. His glasses were gone, but he could make out the shapes of the faces around him as well as a drink being offered.  “Thanks,” he breathed and took a sip—not that he was thirsty, but that he felt he had to do it.

Murata shifted slightly on the grass when Yuuri put down his folded black jacket as a pillow. With the movement, Murata practically screamed the agony was so intense—as though someone had struck him with a baseball bat.  A jolt of electricity was shooting up his leg at intense speed. He writhed on the grass, making everything worse, and Murata could sense Yuuri fretting over him.

It was annoying but he felt powerless.

Murata’s black hair fell against the jacket and, with labored breathing, he opened his eyes again when he sensed something else—something blue covering him and the soft scent of sunflowers. Looking to the side, Murata could see that Wolfram had removed his blue military coat and had covered him with it.  Not at any point did he look to Yuuri to seek approval. He simply did it because he wanted to or needed to. Murata could not tell which.

“I’ve got the medicine box,” came another voice.

“Good job, Renton,” Wolfram said.

Renton had a lithe build exactly the same as his commander’s along with light brown hair and aquamarine eyes. The man was not only a strong fire wielder, he was also a medic in Wolfram’s elite guard—having been trained by Gissela herself.

“I’m going to have to take a look at the leg and find a way to stop the bleeding,” he told his commander matter-of-factly.

“Do you need help holding him down?” the blond asked.  Sometimes, that distasteful task was necessary.

He narrowed his eyes at the patient.  “Possibly.”

Gwendal stood back from the little group and the rest of his soldiers as well as Wolfram’s men made a wide arc out of respect.  “How far to the closest village?”

Wolfram looked up at his brother.  “Falconworth? About an hour’s hard ride. That is where we were going to meet up with Conrad and Yozak on our return to the castle.”

The two of them turned to Renton.  He shook his head at the idea.  “I wouldn’t advise moving him very far considering the bleeding, the pain that he’s in and, I think, he has a badly broken leg...not a clean break.” The blue jacketed man gave a small shrug.  “If he were Mazoku, we might cart him in the back of a slow wagon if we were really desperate to move him.  But, Geika is a human and their bodies…”  He didn’t need to finish the thought. “We need Gissela, it seems.  She would be the best person to trust our Great Sage to.”

There was a general murmur of agreement from the onlookers.

“Well, is there anything we can do for Murata now?” Yuuri’s tone took on a decidedly “controlled panic” vibe which made Wolfram join in with “I’m sure there’s something we can do.  After all, Renton not only has an impressive command of fire wielding, but he has had medical training and he comes from a noble house specializing in the trade of herbs.”

Despite himself, the medic puffed his chest out a little at the praise and respect of his family.  Those few words from his commanding officer could do that  much.

“Shibuya…don’t worry,” Murata breathed weakly, trying to make things better somehow for his best friend and king. His mind had faded in well enough to give comfort.

“Once I get the bleeding to stop and stabilize the leg, I think we should move Geika somewhere more comfortable.  If, maybe, someone could set up a tent and cot…that would be for the best,” Renton suggested in polite military form.

“Better yet,” Gwendal said, “have everyone pitch tents.”  He looked to the sky.  “We’re losing daylight pretty quickly.  Let’s just settle here and send word to both the castle, for Gissela, and Falconworth where Conrad is waiting.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agreed.  “Anything.”

Murata could feel his leg a little and hands on it.  He told himself that the person wasn’t groping. They were working on him, examining him. He was a doctor in one lifetime, right? 

A sudden, strike of pain—like lightning and he cried out this time, unsettling the people around him. He knew better than to do that, knew that it would have been kinder—less troublesome for others—if he’d managed to keep it in.  But he couldn’t. 

“Blood…” someone was saying.

 

Murata murmured the word, too, “Blood?”  He had to admit to himself that he never felt the blood and, lying back this way, he never saw a drop of it.  Other people’s blood, that was fine. Over the lifetimes, he’d grown immune to seeing it.  His own blood?  Well, that was another matter entirely. He got a greasy feeling in his stomach just from the thought.

His leg again.  Now, it felt wrapped up in a kind of binding and something on either side so that he couldn’t move.  It felt, well, strange. “I’m…numb?”

“Open your mouth, Geika.”

The dark haired sage wrinkled his nose.  He didn’t want to chat with him—just sleep.  Lie there.

“Open, please.”

Murata squinted up with a single eye.  “Wha-?”

“Bite down on this leaf, but don’t eat it.  Okay?” the medic instructed.

Reluctantly, Murata did so, but noted the strange taste.  “What is this?” he gritted out between clinched teeth.

“That’s Henbane.”

“What?!”  Sick as he felt, he still had the strength to half-roll his body away to spit it out.  “Toxic, that is… What are you thinking?” He complained bitterly, wiping his hand across his drooling mouth.  Within seconds, his lips felt heavy and “dead” and his head was swimming. 

“I’m thinking that it works to give a patient a tranquilizing effect and a Twilight Sleep.  You need both.”

The black haired sage frowned, now feeling very much not like himself.  “Twilight Sleep?  Not good…” he admitted aloud.  “And if I chew on four of those leaves, I’ll sleep forever, you know?”

A soft laugh.  “I won’t let our precious Geika die. Trust me…”

Murata’s head felt heavy, thick.  He let it fall back.  “You have no idea how many people have asked me to do that.” A slow, bitter laugh. “…Turned out bad every time...”

 

 

Murata was restless. He was lying on a military cot with Yuuri’s jacket still behind his head as a pillow and Wolfram’s coat was draped heavily across his chest. For some reason, the sage had clung to the coat and it was assumed that he wanted to keep warm.

Murata’s shoes had been taken off and his right pant leg had been split up to his thigh so that his broken leg could be stabilized.  Between that and the foul-smelling plaster to fight off infection, there was nothing more they could do but wait.

Wolfram pushed the tent flap back and found Murata’s cot on the right side with Yuuri seated on the ground next to it, head hung down—dozing.  A part of Wolfram felt resentment to see his fiancé, who was maou, sitting there like a member of the guard.  It hurt, not that he wanted to acknowledge it.  Still, Wolfram knew, if he were the one lying there, Yuuri would just come in for a quick peek as an obligation and then leave.

Their bond wasn’t as strong, it seemed.

 _Why?_ he wondered.  Then again, he must have asked himself that question a thousand times since they first met almost four and a half years ago.  There was always a “why” connected with his double black—in various circumstances.  Each context differed and, in a way, each one remained the same.  And the outcome? 

Always the same.

Wolfram approached Yuuri and poked him in the shoulder--hard.  Nothing.  Frustrated, he did it again and again with the double black suddenly waking up with a start.  A frown upwards followed. “Wolf?  What are you doing?” he whined, rubbing his shoulder through the white shirt.

“Now,” the blond said with a toss of his head in the appropriate direction.

“What? Sheesh, Wolf.” He continued to rub the aching spot.

“I’m telling you to take a rest on that cot over there.”  He pointed to the left side of the tent.  “You are the maou and sitting on the ground is not dignified. Please think of your position and the way people will view you if you just sit on the ground like you have been.”

Yuuri ruffled his own hair and gave a sour look to him.  “We’re in a tent.  Nobody can see us in here and, even if they did, nobody’s going to care.  The one we should be worried about is Murata.”  The dissatisfaction in his eyes grew. “Honestly,” he griped under his breath, “can’t you think about somebody else for once?”

Emerald eyes hardened as the bishonen offered Yuuri a hand up in a gallant, smooth set of motions not unlike a prince charming.  The blond was not going to give in, that was for certain. “Well, the least you can do is stand up. Or do you prefer to be curled upon yourself like a nautilus?”

The hand was there—waiting.

Palm stretched out and wide.

Yuuri’s mouth became a tight, thin line.  But, still, he took the offered hand and got up slowly.  Yes, now that he was on his feet again, it did seem that Wolfram was right.  His back was a bit tighter than he thought it was and his bum was uncomfortably flat. Yuuri looked to his blond companion _. Maybe, Wolfram had a point.  But he was probably just nagging out of some kind of jealousy anyway. It’s so typical of him._

Wolfram gestured to the cot and, with a dour expression, Yuuri took a seat on it—just to stop the nagging.  Yes, Wolfram got his way after all.  Didn’t he always? The double black’s heart felt like it had a dark scribble over it—and not for the first time.

A moan.  Murata turned his head to the side and murmured something.  Sounds, syllables.  Wolfram was closer and he gazed down upon the sleeping sage. And when the young man’s dark eyes opened, the pupils seemed wide—unnaturally wide.  His face seemed flushed, too.

“Murata?” Yuuri said from where he was seated.

“The drug seems to be working.  He’s in Twilight Sleep.”  Wolfram turned to the double black with a hand on his hip.  “He might start talking, Yuuri, so be prepared for it.”

“Why?”

“Back in the early days of the country, we used henbane as a method to get the truth out of someone.  That’s all.”

Yuuri blinked at that.  “You mean…  A kind of truth serum?” 

Wolfram shrugged at that, not really knowing the term.  “I suppose…an elixir…or the dried leaves could be used.   But there were problems with it.  For example, it was difficult to know how much to give a suspect without killing them…  Not to mention, there was always the issue of wondering just how reliable the information we could get out of the interrogation and was it worth the effort involved.” He thought for a second on a way to clarify that.  “You see, for some people, there is no difference between reality and fantasy.  So, it is still used occasionally, but, honestly…” he shook his head at the rest.  “I would much rather send Yozak after someone and get solid facts.”

“I see…”  Yuuri nodded at that.  It made sense.

“After all… People may not always believe what you say, but they will always believe what you do.” And then Wolfram turned back to look at Murata after words passed from his lips—familiar ones. Nostalgic, in a way.

“Sh…?” Murata whispered, tugging on Wolfram’s hand and blinking up at him, trying to focus his eyes.  “Befel rutakem  I maehon…”

“He’s babbling,” Yuuri fretted.

The blond shook his head.  “No.  No, it’s not gibberish.”  He glanced at his fiancé and then returned to Murata.  “It’s Old High Mazoku…a dead language.  But I can’t quite understand the dialect…not entirely.  It has a nasal quality which seems odd.”

“You studied that?” Yuuri pointed to the sage as though that would clarify things.

A nod.  “My tutors thought that the ancient words and literature were good for all young Mazoku of royal blood to study. So, I did for about two years.  I remember most of it because I still like to read old poetry from time to time.”  Thinking that Yuuri would not respect such a confession, he added defensively, “It’s like my art…just a hobby.”

A slight hum of acknowledgement, but Wolfram thought Yuuri was doing more—probably laughing on the inside. And he didn’t like the thought.

Murata pulled on Wolfram’s hand again, drawing him down on one knee this time.  “Sh…?”

“Does he want something?” the double black asked, craning his head to get a better look from where he sat.

“I don’t know.”  Wolfram’s face hovered near Murata’s now.  “Do you need anything?  We can get you more water.”

The hand clinched his.  “Sh…eee…” was rasped.

Wolfram shook his head.  “I don’t understand.  I’m sorry.”

Murata’s mouth frowned slightly and his eyes became serious. “I teb uty em ala yem roreut … _Shinou_.”

Green eyes widened at that. Wolfram looked over his shoulder at Yuuri.  “He thinks I’m Shinou.” The blond turned back and spoke lowly in the same language—a cascade of syllables, merging them together but with a strained and unpracticed quality.  “Um…what else can I say?” Wolfram thought aloud.  He chewed his lower lip slightly and then went on.

Hearing his words, Murata gave a drunken, almost bitter chuckle, tried to move and a gasp caught in his throat.

The blond put a hand to Murata’s chest, trying to gently coax him back down.  “I just told you not to move because of your leg.  At least, I think I did.”

“ _Shinou_.” The hand tugged at Wolfram’s again and he could make out the words better this time in a language that had not been spoken in thousands of years:  “Shinou…I am injured…I believe...”

Wolfram nodded. “That you are…as I explained.”

“Ahh…”  Dark eyes closed for a moment, pained.  His chin tilted briefly towards the top of the tent. “I see…  There is not time enough to heal me.  Y-Yes…” The nails of his free hand dug into Wolfram’s blue jacket.  “Then, abandon me here…on this battlefield. To carry me with you would slow you down.”  He took a shallow breath.  “Survive this day….alone…”

Wolfram gave a small squeeze of their linked hands. “We _are not_ on a battlefield.”

The sage spoke slowly: “The enemy…the enemy will arrive soon.  Hear their drums?  See their fires burning in the night?”

The blond tried again, speaking gently but firmly. “There is no one to combat against.”

“Terrifying…the scent of death…like rotting cabbage in the fields…rills of blood…”  A thin, dark frown.  “The problem with a battlefield…not everyone dies at once…”

“There is no one out there who is your enemy,” Wolfram said evenly, “and even if there were, he would pay dearly.  I would make it so.”

A noncommittal hum.  “So you say…” and Murata’s whole facial expression gradually changed to one that Wolfram didn’t recognize.  He seemed older somehow.  The cheerful boyishness of Murata was traded for someone who reminded Wolfram of his brother, Conrad—a kind of enigmatic smile, of knowing something he was not yet ready to divulge.  And there was something else… “You are such a troublesome king, Shinou.”

 _He is hurting pretty badly, but he seemed pleased enough to tell me those last few words_ , Wolfram thought wryly.

“What’s he saying?” Yuuri asked, his voice still betraying his concern.

Wolfram didn’t bother to look back this time.  “He still thinks I’m Shinou and he’s just…talking…just saying words.”  Yes, leave it at that.

“So, I don’t need to go get the medic…or maybe some water?” Yuuri suggested hopefully.

It was evening now and Wolfram could look at the front of the tent and see the brightness of the torches and the large, dancing campfire through the textile.  Men were sitting around, finishing their suppers, and Wolfram could hear the rumble and mix of the men’s voices. Above the racket, he could make out Conrad’s and the barking laugh of Yozak.

There was probably a little drink involved, he guessed.

“You know, Conrad arrived right before I came in here to wake you up. You might want to check in with him and get something to eat.  On the way back, return with some water for the tent because we might need it…maybe,” the blond suggested to get rid of him.  Yuuri’s questions weren’t doing either one of them much good. In fact, he was starting to get annoyed.

 “Good idea,” the double black praised and headed for the only exit.

“Take your time,” Wolfram told him without so much as a glance.  He could feel a slight hesitation with the tent flap being opened but no movement.  Yuuri was probably watching him. With what expression? He couldn’t hazard a guess. But, soon enough, the double black was out and into the night air.

Wolfram grew weary for a moment.  “I knew you’d take any opportunity to leave.”  Despite himself, his strong will, the scowl grew on his brow. “I’m glad I could provide you with one.”

“Shinou?” Murata said and his voice seemed to be in a deeper tone now. There was a confident and personal way in which the name was spoken, too. The raven eyes blinked slowly, trying to focus on Wolfram’s face and he seemed to be trying to decide what to say next.

“Listen, about me being ‘Shinou the All-powerful…” Wolfram tried to correct with a note of sarcasm.  “You see…”  Then, he pursed his lips. How could he translate that?  Reading old poetry in an archaic language just wasn’t the same as conveying his own ideas in that language.

A reproachful look toward the blond—as though he’d just said something sordid. “That night,” the sage began, “I’ve already forgotten it… and you should as well.”

“You’re not on a battlefield,” he told him with a sigh this time. What would it take to get through to him? Or should he just give up to the ravings of a drugged sage.  It would certainly be easier if he did.

“No point…” Murata continued, words meant for himself.  “Letting you hold me on a whim…with enough drink in you.  You taking delight in my body…a mistake…”

Wolfram cocked his head to the side, eyes growing impossibly wide.  Did he just hear that? 

“I have already forgotten it, Shinou, and you should as well.” The look upward was sad and sincere now with a lonely detachment. “No good can come from an association with me.”  He shifted his leg and took a haggard breath.  “And I hold it not against you for spending a day and a night in Rufus’ tent… Yes, my king, I know about it…your lust.”

Wolfram, astounded, covered his mouth with his free hand.

“My blond king…you cannot betray me, cheat on me…  Never did we make such promises to each other…and, in the end, it is the weakness of kings to stray.”  A sigh.  “They all do…eventually…”

Wolfram didn’t know what to say. He was utterly flabbergasted and had, under the stress, forgotten every word of the language he had been using up to that point.

“But I do have my doubts… I do question.”

A nod from Wolfram in return.  Of course, he would.  It would only be reasonable to.

Words tinged with sorrow:  “You are Shinou…King of Shin Makoku…creator of Blood Pledge Castle and the one who has made a pact with the earth spirits.”  He turned away and then his dark eyes sought out Wolfram again.  “Tell me that our plan is for the greater good.  Promise,” he said as his voice dropped to a whisper, “… swear to me that our sacrifices will be enough…that our pain will be enough…that remembering each life that I live will not drive me mad…shredding my soul into thin strands over each lifetime so that I may remember…  That it will be worth it.” The hand grew warm.  “Shinou, make my lies…to lovers and friends… _truths_ …”

Wolfram cringed and then bowed his head when it became too much.

“Will all the wisdom buy my soul an ounce of peace, I wonder?  Or is that another sacrifice?”

Wolfram held his hand a little tighter. That was the best he could do.

“But to toy with Fate…as we are doing.  Even though you question it not, I still cannot help but ask… ‘Is there no other way?’”  And with his free hand, Murata pulled Wolfram’s blue military coat higher, under his chin. “Lives will be thrown together…people who _shouldn’t be_ …”

Wolfram could feel his heart hammering hard at those words. How they were phrased.  He understood and that frightened him.

“Shinou?” Murata called to him.  “I am…troubled but must not show that side of myself to you.”  He seemed to be searching his mind in such a cloudy state—trying and failing.  “Why do I believe that I will be the death of you?” Murata took back his hand and placed it against his heart for a moment.  “Ouo koh mienot o’ ?” The sage asked almost desperately, repeating his previous question. And when Wolfram didn’t answer, because he couldn’t, Murata raised a gentle palm and rested it against his pale cheek.  And, then, he did something the blond would never have expected—would never have guessed.

He cried.

Wolfram’s mouth hung open slightly, astonished.

Tears.

Falling.

The hand moved from Wolfram’s cheek to the back of his neck, guiding his face down.  And when the next tear fell, the blond found his lips gently pressed against the sage’s…a soft, sensuous feeling.  The need for comfort –for them both. 

And it had been so long, so terribly long, since Wolfram had found the warmth of another person.

Wolfram pulled away and ran his thumb across his lower lip. “Who is the cheater now?” he said to himself as his eyes looked to the front of the tent.  And, close beside him, the blond could make out the sound of Murata Ken snoring softly. His sleep was heavier this time. 

Much like Wolfram’s heart.

 

 

Gissela had arrived with the medical wagon and her medicine box along with two healers as assistants.  The small military tent village that they’d set up the night before was now completely gone and they were making a slow trek back to the castle, trying to keep Murata as comfortable as possible along the way.

As usual, Yuuri was at the front--talking in a hopeful, animated way with his godfather as they traveled on the dirt road.   Mostly it was “Conrad, this” and “Conrad, that.” His voice carried in an irritating way to Wolfram’s ears.  He wasn’t in the mood for it.  He wasn’t in the mood for anything, really.

The blond fire wielder rode on with the muffled clomp, clomp of the horses cocooning him.  If he could only focus on that.  Gradually, there was a rumbling voice next to Wolfram’s side—which he flatly ignored.  It was difficult being trapped in his own thoughts and he could only deal with so much.

“Oi, Little Lord Brat.  I was talking to you,” Yozak said, being jovial.

The blond suddenly jerked at his reference and then gave a hard, steady glare at the spy while his ears picked up the faint snickers from soldiers in the background.  It was only Gwendal’s gruff, “Enough, men!” from behind that got them to shut up.

“What do you want?” Wolfram growled lowly at Yozak, sparing him only a moment.

“Well, I was just curious,” he said, riding a little taller in the saddle.  “I was wondering if you were sick or something.  So far, you’ve been all this way and you’ve hardly said two words to your fiancé over there.  Come to think of it, at dawn, I caught you sleeping by the campfire with a mug of barley water in your hand.”  He thumbed at the double black riding in front of them.  “Trouble in paradise?”

Wolfram sliced him a look and then went back to his thoughts. He wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. After all, there would be no perfect response, and he knew that everyone—probably Gwendal, included—was listening in.  The blond hated no win scenarios.

“Aww… Come on,” Yozak teased with a widening grin on his face.  He had a “You can tell me” vibe as well.

“Tell me Yozak,” Wolfram said, his eyes focused on a point in the road ahead of him, “how would you like for me to set your hair on fire?  Bother me again and I can arrange it.”  He snapped his fingers, extended his hand and a ball of flame the size of a baseball rotated threateningly over the palm.  “Give me the word…”

“Wolfram!” Gwendal barked from behind.

A blond eyebrow raised when he gained the attention of the entire traveling party.  But it wasn’t his fault, really. He’d been minding his own business. “I apologize, My Lord Brother.”  A dark smile appeared on his lips.  “Yozak called me ‘Little Lord Brat’ and I took that as an invitation to be one.”  He gave a cold glance at the spy.  “I must have been mistaken.”

“Wolf.”  Yuuri shook his head in exasperation as he turned back. “We’re all tired, okay?  It has been a long trip.  So, no more trouble.  Let’s just go home.”  And Conrad gave a smile in support of his godson’s words.

“I knew you’d say that,” Wolfram told himself. “It’s just like you.”  He tried to keep his chin up.  Appearances were necessary in front of the men and especially Gwendal.  But it would have been nice if for once—only once—Yuuri would have seen that he was being pushed and sided with him.  Even if it was something small, it would have been good.  “But, that’s the way it is…isn’t it?  Always the same…”

He was a fool to hope differently.

And he knew it.

 

 

They reached the castle around noon and, immediately, Wolfram made himself busy.  He stole his way into the Royal Bedroom, took out a canvas sack ordinarily used when he was out on maneuvers, and put some clothes in it.  He, then, returned to the barracks where his men stayed and entered his private office at the west end of the building—doing the usual paperwork right away instead of putting it off.

It was a good excuse.  Keep busy.  Stay out of everyone’s way.

Avoid Yuuri.

When it grew dark, Wolfram turned on the oil lamp on his desk and did some reading. He had a few knocks on his door from some of his men. But the issues were small and inconsequential. Briefly, he wondered if they were simply checking up on him.  His Private Guard tended to do that and, during certain weeks of the year, especially budget time, when he’d fell asleep on the cot in his office, he’d wake in the wee hours to find a wool blanket placed over him.

Tonight, he’d sleep on his cot again—but for different reasons.

After taking a light supper in his office, Wolfram left for a short stroll in the rose garden.  He was still thinking about the day’s events and playing over what he’d learned in his mind. It made sense.  Finally, everything fell into place.

Wolfram picked a yellow rose and studied it—twirling it between his fingers and thumb in the beginning of nightfall as he took his seat on the stone bench facing the west.  The sky was a lovely, darkening blue with only a sprinkling of stars gracing it. 

“This is who I am, isn’t it?”  Wolfram finished the thought with a sigh. “But, thanks to Geika, I…at the very least…know _why_.”  He took in the scent of the flower.  It was a mellow scent of rose mixed with light citrus.  “I understand now, and if I could just give myself a moment to let go…to mourn…”

A breeze pushed against the flower and the petals freed themselves, tumbling away gracelessly.  And at the sight, Wolfram smiled.  He could do little else.

No, he realized, there was something that he could do.  And it was better to do it now than to let it wait.

By morning, it would all be over and done with.

An end of his intentions, not Shinou’s.

 

 

“And take this calligraphy set to my new bedroom next to my brother’s quarters.  And try not to disturb Lord von Voltaire while you do it,” Wolfram said to the first of three maids, handing the small box over.  The women were busy trying to pack and tidy at the same time. Wolfram wondered why they bothered.  Yuuri wouldn’t care in the slightest if a speck of dust was floating around or not.

“Oh, and this,” Wolfram handed his highly polished boots to maid number three, who had to be a sibling of maid one because they seemed to have exactly the same button nose and eye color.  “Take care not to scuff these up.  I worked hard to polish them.”

A bright, girlish smile in his direction. “Oh, I could do that for you next time, Lord von Bielefeld,” chirped maid number two.  For the last ten minutes, she had insisted upon being “incredibly helpful” to him and Wolfram was neither charmed by it nor interested in the offer.  Socially speaking, he knew that mixing with the staff usually brought on troubles.  (Though, he was sure that his uncle, Waltorana, had broken that rule more than once in his wild youth.  Wolfram was still trying to live down that rumored cross-dressing orgy with salad oil that was “unexpectedly” broken up when his Honorable Grandfather and his entourage arrived at Bielefeld Castle a week earlier than expected.)

“I can handle polishing the boots myself,” Wolfram instructed as he went back to the closet to sort his things from Yuuri’s.  “And take this…”  He handed an arm-load of shirts which included a white military issue nightshirt and his notorious pink nightie.  Wolfram had no idea why he’d take the nightie, but it was just something to take for now.

Wolfram picked up his hand mirror and comb in his left hand.  The silver plated set was something he’d brought back with him last year on a trip to Earth.  In Japan, he’d stopped in an antique store and had fallen in love with the mirror and comb.  The next day, Yuuri’s mother presented him with the set as a gift and he gave her a hug in return.

But that was then and this was now.

“I would also like…” the blond said as he pointed towards his wooden bucket of bath things.

“Wolf?  What are you doing?” came from behind and Wolfram stiffened at the voice.  The maids were looking over his shoulder, too.  Nervousness quickly spread from girl to girl.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram said, turning to face him, “I thought you would be in lessons with Gunther this morning.  You usually are at this time.”

The double black’s eyes swept the room.  “I…uh…was but Anissina insisted that he help with an experiment. She had him cornered in the library and then dragged him down the hallway.  So, I decided to change into my baseball uniform so that I could play some catch.”

“With Conrad?” Wolfram finished for him.

Yuuri watched the first maid curtsey in his direction and then scamper out of the room.  “Uh…yeah…”  The double black’s tone was confused.

“Enjoy,” Wolfram said offhandedly as he turned and ordered, “…Take that with you when you go.  Thanks.”  And the second girl balanced clothes in one arm, quickly scooped up the wooden bucket, gave a clumsy curtsey to Yuuri, and stepped through the door.

Yuuri frowned slightly at the flash of the notorious pink nightie disappearing on the way out.  He looked around the room.  It was an organized mess.  “What’s going on?  It’s too early for New Year’s cleaning.”

With the third maid, the ex-prince motioned for her to go with a nod of his head and she did so.  This one didn’t bother the curtsey, though, and Wolfram took note of that even though Yuuri didn’t.

He knew where her loyalties were even if Yuuri was blind to it.

And, maybe, that amused him a little—just a little.

Like a tour guide in a museum, he gestured:  “As you can see, over there are my Earth clothes, socks, and boxed up shoes.”  The blond went to the two neatly folded piles on the bed, on his side, and put down the hand mirror and comb for a second.  He took up a manila folder.  He opened it and reached in.  “Pictures…” There were different sizes and shapes—times together and shared memories.  A patchwork of colorful paper jumbled together in one hand.  He smiled down at them sadly for a moment before sliding the pictures inside and dropping the envelope carelessly back where it had been. “I don’t need these anymore.” 

The blond looked to Yuuri but could see only confusion.  He added, “I would have returned every single gift that you’ve ever given me, as tradition dictates, but…” he turned back to the bed “…you never gave me anything…”

The hand mirror and comb set.  He was sure that “Mama” had purchased them for him—not Yuuri, her son. Wolfram could, at least, keep those.  So, he took them up again in his left hand.

Next to the manila envelope, he retrieved a piece of folded parchment sealed in the blue wax of the von Bielefelds.  The blond returned and presented it to Yuuri in a formal way—the manner that always made the double black uncomfortable.  But, he didn’t care.  Sometimes, such things were necessary.

Today, it was necessary.

“I don’t need to tell you what this is,” Wolfram said evenly. “And you’ve wanted it for so very long.”

Yuuri’s jaw dropped a little as Wolfram placed the folded parchment in his hand.  “I don’t understand…”  Black eyes glanced at the clothes, the pictures, and then the wax-sealed parchment. “I just…”

The blond turned to go and the double black grabbed his wrist, tugging at it.  In a split second, the hand mirror fell to the floor and fractured—the once smooth surface reflecting the face of nine “Yuuris” now.

“Oh, Wolf!” He almost made a reach for the broken hand mirror and then stopped himself.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to do that.  I really didn’t.”

With a shadow crossing his face, Wolfram tossed the matching comb to the floor in defeat.  “It’s not a bother.  I’ll send a maid in here to clean up the mess.”  He made his way for the door.  “In the meantime, I advise…don’t cut yourself.”

The blond walked into the hallway, not bothering to close the door behind him.  It wasn’t his door anyway.  It was fine to leave things like that. This, too, would pass.  He would just keep telling himself that.

“Wolf, wait!  You’re serious, aren’t you?” Yuuri said from close behind.  He had his wrist again, stopping him.  Yuuri looked troubled and confused.  “I don’t know why.  I mean, of all days…  We didn’t even have a fight, Wolf.  So, I don’t know why you picked today to do this.”  He held up the slightly crushed parchment as evidence.

The blond thought about it, eyes glancing down and away as he wrestled with the decision.  They were in the hallway.  A very public place.  Anyone could overhear.

“Wolf?”

Hard green eyes bore into to him.  “The truth?  Do you want it?”

The double black gave a nod.  “Yeah… I mean, you’re not jealous about me with Conrad again or something, are you?  I mean, after all, he’s _your brother_ and _my godfather_.  You know?  Just think about it.”  Yuuri stood a little taller, almost eager to get his point across now that he was on that tangent.  “It’s just that I get so tired of your constant fits of jealousy and I can always see it coming…”

Briefly, the blond bishonen tuned the rest of the words out. They were so meaningless.  Then, a gentle smile played on Wolfram’s lips.  Yes, he’d tell…not that Yuuri would believe it. But that would be fine just the same.   “You can stop babbling now.”  He put a hand up to halt the nonsense.  “You see, Yuuri… the reality is…I now understand… _everything_.”  Yes, that was the truth, wasn’t it?  “I have my answers and I now know _why_ …”

 _I know why you don’t love me and probably never will,_ Wolfram thought _.  We were thrown together.  We were never meant to be—not without Shinou’s hand in the creation of our shared Fate._

 Emerald eyes met black.  “It all makes sense.”

The double black released his wrist.  “Well, you’re not making any sense to me, Wolf!”

“And that’s fine,” Wolfram realized as he spoke the words aloud, not planning them—but there they were.  The revelation was astounding.  It didn’t matter if Yuuri understood him or not, loved him or not, needed him by his side or not.  Everything was created by Shinou’s design so that Yuuri would become the savior-king of Shin Makoku, better than every maou who had ever existed. But, as with all magic, it came at a steep price--chosen ones would have to suffer so that there would be harmony for the people to enjoy.

“ _Wolf_.”  Yuuri practically growled his name in frustration, but that was no matter to Wolfram. He knew that the double black lacked the stones to do anything to him.  For that was the beauty and the cruelty of Shibuya Yuuri.

“Do you know,” the blond explained as he walked away, “we are people who shouldn’t be?”  Yes, Wolfram liked that description. It fit them perfectly.  ‘It is the truth.  What a beautiful thing.”

And, with that, Wolfram turned a corner, leaving Yuuri behind. Wolfram had someone else to visit anyway.

 

 

In the infirmary, Murata sighed and put down his sixth book.  He had a towering stack of tomes that he’d asked for in order to keep himself busy. But, sadly, he was reading through them much too quickly.  Briefly, he toyed with the idea of switching to the diaries of war heroes.  Usually, they wrote in ink so old it had oxidized and the script, as well as wording, could be quite amusing to read. 

Murata adjusted his spare pair of glasses on his nose with a finger.

Yes, he’d give the diaries a go tomorrow.  He needed something—anything—to get his mind off of the leg that was mending.

When a knock came at the door, Murata smiled to himself.  He had some guess as to who would come.  But his smile faded to one of slight confusion when Wolfram von Bielefeld entered the room.

“How kind,” Murata practically purred, “I had no idea that you would grace me with your presence.”  Yes, needle him with formal speech or, if the visit was sincere, he might take it as good manners.  Murata decided to see for himself which it was.

Wolfram gave a polite nod and closed the door behind him.

“A closed door?” his face seemed to say.  Murata studied him with a smile and Wolfram, immediately, sensed the change in mood.  It didn’t bother him and that, in itself, made the sage intrigued even more.

“Was there something I could help you with?” Murata asked.  “I am, however, a little slower moving at the moment.  But, if it is advice you’re looking for…?”  He had a smirk now that usually annoyed the blond.  “Maybe, you’ve come to ask what you can do to get along with Shibuya better?”  Definitely, call him “Shibuya” to brag about their friendship—implying more intimacy between them was such fun.

Wolfram took his stand at the foot of Murata’s bed and put his hands behind his back casually.  He was thinking of what to say.

“Well?” and his dark head was cocked to the side.

The blond gave him a serious look.  “Under the influence of the henbane you entered Twilight Sleep and said some things.  I thought you would want to know.”

The smile no longer reached Murata’s eyes and he grew very still in the bed.  “Did I?”

A shaky nod, almost an embarrassed one.  “You did.”

Casually, Murata took his glasses off and pretended to polish them on the edge of his white blanket.  “Care to share what I talked about?” he asked distractedly.

The room seemed to have a heavy feeling to it now and it wasn’t just Wolfram’s imagination. “Things…important things to you,” he told him, but that didn’t seem specific enough for the sage and his face clearly showed it.  As Geika, the Keeper of Secrets and Adviser to the Maou of Shin Makoku, this was a possible threat and Wolfram was now an enigma.

“Why I’m here is to let you know that I was the only one who could hear your words and understand you…to truly recognize the meanings.”  Wolfram added in the ancient language, “Eihs sho tribal?” or “Do you follow?” in modern Mazoku.  He took a half step closer to the bed and saw in Murata’s dark eyes a spark of fear.  In a split second, it was gone.  But it was enough.

Wolfram understood.

“The reason why I’m here is to answer your question,” he said.

“And that is?” Murata’s smile was forced and his body still in the bed.  He was waiting and would be patient. Sages were good at that, watching the political tide.

“If you’ve ever wondered…in all of your lives and all that you’ve been through…the death and the destruction…the pain.  If you’ve ever asked yourself, ‘Is it worth it?’  I have your answer because you know better than anyone that _I am_ your answer.”  He leaned toward the bed.  “I was ‘thrown together’ with Yuuri for a purpose, wasn’t I?”

The fear was back in Murata’s eyes.  He was struggling to mask his other emotions, too.

“Then, here is your answer:  It was.”  Wolfram gave him a thin smile.  “I was born and I got to meet you and Yuuri.  He is a good king, I think, even if our time together was short.  And I regret nothing.”

Murata gave a puzzled look. “Short?”  Now, he steepled his fingers and then picked his words very carefully.  “Did something happen to Shibuya?”  Did they keep things from him?  A tragedy?

“Not him… _me_.” Wolfram gave a wan smile.  “I think I’m learning how to let go…because I want to.”

A knock at the door and a certain double black popped his head in.  “Murata, I…” and then he stopped, wide-eyed seeing Wolfram standing there.  “Oh, I had no idea you’d be here, Wolf… I mean…uh…”

“I was just leaving,” he excused himself with a polite bow in the sage’s direction.  “I only came to ask Geika how he was feeling.  He seems to be doing much better.  He just told me he hates the food here,” Wolfram lied.

“Yes, terrible.  Just awful,” the sage agreed, running his fingers through his dark hair briefly.  “Umm…von Bielefeld?” Murata said, tilting his head to the side in a flirtatious way, acting more like his old self.  “I was wondering…  Could you come back tomorrow and keep a poor invalid company?  Maybe, bring a book and read to me?”

“Read?” Yuuri said with a note of confusion, looking back and forth between the pair.

Wolfram put a hand on his hip and pretended to consider the offer. “Yes, I would be happy to, Geika.  It would be an honor.”  The blond gave a low bow.

“That’s ‘Murata,’” he corrected boyishly.

“ _Geika_ ,” Wolfram insisted.  After all, protocol was protocol.

“We’ll work on that,” the sage said and sent him off with a friendly wave.

Yuuri approached the wicker chair next to the bed and sat in it.  “I had no idea the two of you were friends. He always gave me the impression that things were kind of…ummm, you know…strained between you two.”  The double black flipped the parchment sealed in blue wax back and forth in his hands.  “And, speaking of Wolf, I…have this…and…”

“So, he’s finally done with you?” Murata stated flatly, taking on the tone of a learned man.

Both of Yuuri’s eyebrows raised at that comment. “Nothing he said made sense” the double black defended.  “He acted weird the whole time we were coming back to the castle, too, but I just thought he was cranky from the long trip, or mad I was talking to Conrad too much.”

“Like you often do?”

“Oi,” Yuuri objected lightly. “Whose side are you on?”

“And you’re seeking my advice?”

Yuuri blushed a little at it.  “I guess…  I’m not sure if I want to open this or not.”  He looked at the sealed parchment again—not sure whether it was friend or foe.

“Shibuya?” Murata met eyes with him and there was an impish smile playing on his lips while doing so.  “My advice is…”

“Yes?”

“Decide very soon what exactly you want from Lord von Bielefeld.  Decide the ‘committed path’ you intend to take:  Friendship or marriage.  Because, if you delay for too long, someone else out there may snatch him up….”

“Oh, really?” Yuuri snickered, enjoying the joke—laughing with a hand behind his head.  He certainly felt better now. His friend had a way of doing that to him.  What a welcome distraction.  He could always count on Murata.

“Ha! Ha! And exactly who would be crazy enough to do that?”

Murata folded his arms against his chest and fixed his keen eyes on the door.  A hazy memory returned to him:  a kiss and a face which was similar, but too young to be Shinou’s. “You’d be surprised, Shibuya.  You’d be surprised.”

“Come on, Murata…  And that would be?”

“Me.”

 

 

 

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THE END

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